Gymnophoria - The sensation that someone is mentally undressing you. With Zelda && That /special/ someone under her command.
SEND ME A WORD AND A CHARACTER/SERIES/PAIRING AND I WILL WRITE A DRABBLE.
❝ your highness? are you listening, your highness? ❞
no, i’m not, the princess almost admits, but her tongue is stilled before it can even move and a demure smile tugs at the corners of her lips in a seemly sheepish nature.
❝ my apologies, ❞ she says, inflection absent of the pleasant rise and fall usually clipped to the words — her mind, it seems, is still too fixated on the needles pinned to her back and the ice flowing through her veins to properly codify her actions. ❝ the eve has grown long, and my weariness with it. ❞
❝ what an understatement, your highness! ❞ the nobleman’s pulls his own lips back to what she presumes is a smile, even though the folds in his forehead and the taut stretch of his cheeks portray it as a grimace. ❝ the night, too, has affected me in the most malicious of ways, though i must say that— ❞
she dives back into her reverie then, head occasionally nodding out of instinct and throat pulling out the right hums at the right times to uphold a pretence of attention. her focus is, in all actuality, concentrated on everything but the rather one-sided conversation she is rooted within right now, thoroughly inspecting every fragment of speech her ears can catch and every vague figure that comes sweeping into her view. just who in farore’s name is—
there! that sensation! there it is, again! the pins in her back dig in deeper than ever and the frost coating her ichor grows colder still, a rope coils painfully tight round her heart and heated fingers are splayed across her skin; she is being watched!
but there’s something else gently nudging her hazy awareness, something that whispers of DOUBT and CONFUSION and SOMETHING’S MISSING. nay, she inwardly argues, occupied mind doing doing all it can to prevent delicate brows from furrowing and roseate tiers from twisting in nonplus, she is not just being watched. she is…she is…—
a squeeze of her heart cuts through the figurative fog of WHAT IF and she returns to the reality of WHAT NOW, shoulders stiff with tension and clasped fingers easily resembling tightly wound twine. she risks three rapid blinks and a covert yawn to clear out the lacquer in her eyes and the water in her ears, only to be delighted (and perhaps a mite perturbed) to find that the individual before her has yet to notice her conscious arrival to their conversational platform (and her departure from it in the first place).
before she can pursue the idea of questioning the man’s complacency, however, a hot shiver rushes up her spine and she is reminded that someone — with very questionable intentions, might she add — out there is…assessing her. she issues another genteel hum before surreptitiously combing through the crowd surrounding her with nothing but her vision, steady and meticulous and downright determined to discover exactly just who is-— hold on, is that impa?
the thought of the sheikah alone is enough to ebb some of her blossoming indignation away, but the fact that she hasn’t spoken a word to her guardian since this morn (❝ i may be late to tonight’s dinner, princess, but i will notify you of my presence as soon as i am there. ❞) brings it (as well as some other sentiment the royal is not too keen on identifying) back twofold. the obvious satisfaction the older woman seems to derive from her current chat with the baron of solmeere (was it?) does not help. the sight, in fact, prompts her to place her scrutiny elsewhere and—
wait. hold on a moment.
the feeling. it’s…gone. and while the respite is welcomed and very appreciated, it is also unexpected and very disconcerting; the perverse sensation of being encroached on has been following her for the majority of the night and for it to come to such a precipitate halt is…wait…
oh.
❝ i am most sorry, lord jakob, but i’m afraid i must cut our conversation short. ❞
the prattling noble flounders for a moment in surprise, mouth opening and shutting in some gauche imitation of a fish out of water, before he composes himself and moves to reply with some indubitably ostentatious lullaby.
she’s interjecting him again before he has the chance to part his lips. ❝ i have matters of paramount importance to discuss with lady impa that have just come to mind. as such, i must take my leave immediately. ❞
it takes the man a few seconds to register her words and recall who ❛lady impa❜ is and what sort of relationship she has with the princess of hyrule, but once the jumble of thoughts are organised, he laughs.
❝ of course, your highness! your exhaustion had a greater impact on you than either of us thought, has it not? to make even your impeccable memory quail…it is most tragic! go, my liege, sally forth to your retainer and tell her what you must! i will patiently—❞
she’s gone before he can even get past her epithet.
❝ impa. ❞
❝ princess? ❞
the radiant glow of impa’s upcurved lips and the lustre of her mantled cheeks as she turns to greet zelda has the princess’ heart knocking against her ribs, and she has to restrict her field of vision and regards to the taller one’s nose to desist from allowing her lips fist to do the same with impa’s lips bright countenance.
❝ you’re here. ❞
the comment elicits peals of quiet mirth from the sheikah, and zelda almost lets out her own tinkling laughter. almost. ❝ indeed, your highness. ❞
❝ just zelda, ❞ is on the tip of her tongue before she even realises its presence, but the correction loses the opportunity of leaving her mouth when impa speaks once more.
❝ i’m sorry for not telling you this before, as i promised i would. i was absorbed into the circle of nobles immediately upon my arrival, ❞ the sheikah laughs again, but zelda has no urge to join in. partially because her guardian’s laugh doesn’t sound quite right and partially because while it can be said without uncertainty that impa was forsooth absorbed, absorbed in what, exactly, is still very obscure.
❝ do not worry. ❞ she brushes the apology aside with a casual wave of her hand and the soft crinkling of her eyes, ❝ i understand. ❞ (she understands all too well.) ❝ you know, the dance begins soon,❞ she remarks, slender hands already wrapping themselves around the other’s coarser ones before her question can even be released: ❝ would you do me the honour of dancing with me? ❞
the eager, earnest nod she receives in response does not disappoint her, and she cannot help but titter when her guardian pulls her to the dais with enlivened eyes and quivering extremities.
impa’s…careful examination of her will have to go unmentioned for now, it seems. a shame, really, for the princess has (admittedly) always gained great amusement from flustering her guardian. oh, but…perhaps there is another way of attaining such pleasure? (zelda wonders how impa would feel if she were to return the watchful favour.)
